PRESENT DAY

I watched them walk out of the house, all suited up. Fucking feds. They didn't have a goddamn clue what was going on, they never did. The house reeked of sulphur; I could smell it from where I stood, across the street and practically half a block away. Fucking demons. They were gone by now, but the place was crawling with the law—looked like I'd have to come back in the dark.

That's when I did a double take. The feds were getting in a car, a classic '67 Impala. I squinted, as if that wasn't unusual enough. "No fucking way," I breathed. Tall, lean. Hair way past FBI regulation length. A slow grin pulled up the corner of my mouth.

"Hey there, Sammy."


"Something isn't adding up."

If a civilian had walked in their motel room at that moment, Sam was pretty sure they'd both end up in a locked ward. They had books on demonic rituals open on the table next to the laptop and the remains of their dinner, newspaper articles on missing persons cases spanning four different states tacked to the walls.

"No fucking kidding," Dean said. "We've been tracking these demons for three fucking weeks, you'd think we'd know what the hell they're doing by now." Three weeks of long car rides through the night only to catch up too late, more people gone without a trace.

Sam huffed. "Alright, let's go over what we do know. A group of demons working for Eve are taking a cross-country road trip, grabbing people as they go. There's nothing linking the victims, their profiles are all different, and until now there hasn't been a kill." He paused.

"Dude, this is pathetic," Dean said, slamming a book shut and shoving away from the table. "By now we should know whether these monsters wear boxers or briefs!" His cell rang suddenly and Dean snatched it up before Sam could reply. "Bobby," Dean barked into the phone, "please tell me you have something."

"Sorry boys, human is a common ingredient in satanic rituals. They could be doing just about anything." Dean swore, looking like he really wanted to kick something. "But I've managed to narrow it down some, based on what we know. If they need this many bodies, and they're not slowing down on collecting... well, my best guess is they're gearing up to summon something big."

"Oh, fantastic," Dean muttered.

"Something big, like what, Bobby?" Sam asked.

"No idea. Still lost on that one," Bobby replied. "Where are you boys, anyway?"

"We're in Wellsville, a tiny town in Utah," Sam said.

"Utah? Last I checked the demons were in Colorado, heading east."

"There was a murder-kidnapping here that I wanted to check out. And I was right," Dean said, shooting Sam a triumphant I-told-you-so look. Sam rolled his eyes. "We found sulphur on the scene."

"What the hell? So now they're killing people too? This ain't makin' a lick of sense."

"You're telling us. These demons aren't the usual random-death-and-destruction types," Sam said. "They've got a plan, we've just got to figure out what the hell it is."

"Well, I'll keep hitting the books. You two be careful."

"Will do, Bobby," Dean replied, hanging up. He slipped the phone into his pocket and grabbed the sawed-off shotgun off the bed, tucking it into his duffel. "Alright Sammy, you know what's next."

Sam nodded, reaching for his handgun and flask of holy water. "Back to the house."

"Let's find out what got daddy dearest on a demon hit list."


A sharp push on the splintered front door and it creaked open, nearly off its hinges. My boots crunched on broken glass; the place was completely trashed. They weren't fuckin' subtle about it, were they. A deep inhale through my nose and I almost gagged. "Jesus Christ," I coughed. Eau de sulphur, with strong smoky undertones of blood and death. But it told me what I needed to know. Three—no, four. I plucked a shattered picture off a shelf that looked like it'd had a body thrown into it. Four demons for one happy, helpless family. Why does that seem like overkill?

Upstairs was an even bigger mess than the main floor. Demons liked to tear shit up for fun, but this was intense. Blood streaked the hardwood floor, and there were bullet holes in the drywall. Huh. Even more curious—the broken salt line in front of the bedroom. Not so helpless after all?

The door was kicked in and I nudged the scattered salt with my toe. My stomach rolled as I stepped into the room. Yep, definitely not helpless. The Devil's trap was spray painted onto the hardwood under the rug. It took me two minutes to pull all the stashed weapons the fuzz had missed, which included a handgun loaded with silver bullets, a wicked-sharp little survival knife that I pocketed, and—points for creativity—a cast iron cooking pan. Seems like daddy was a hunter, and maybe mommy knew a thing or two too.

Kneeling beside a suspicious-looking puddle, I dipped a finger in to have a taste. Mmmm, yes. Holy water with a hint of demon blood. I spat and wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

That's when the rumble of a classic car pulling up the street caught my ear. Ah, they're here.

Time to have some fun.